


Midnight

by alienor_woods



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 14:11:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienor_woods/pseuds/alienor_woods
Summary: Duke Stark is hosting a ball to find a husband for his daughter, Sansa. A young blacksmith's apprentice named Jon Snow hasn't been invited, but luck may just be on his side.





	Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dialux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/gifts).



I.

 

The sun was starting to go orange by the time Theon and Jon left Guildmaster Mikken’s forge for the evening. Jon felt as hot and tired as the sun looked, all languid and slow in the late midsummer heat.

 

“About time he let us go,” Theon grumbled from where he walked alongside Jon. “I can’t believe he kept us so late tonight. Tonight! Of all nights!”

 

Jon tried hard not to roll his eyes.

 

There was a ball tonight at Duke Stark’s castle and it was all Theon wanted to talk about.

 

All day long, he had cast eager glances out the forge’s windows, giving commentary on every slight movement that caught his eye. The ale mistresses loading up their carriages, the unfamiliar landaus and their unknown passengers rolling down the streets, the dressmakers sending boxes out of their shop fronts with delivery riders.

 

Theon had been invited to the ball. Jon hadn’t.

 

So every time Theon crowed about some movement or another, Jon had just bowed his head and worked harder. He focused on pounding his iron into slender rods that he then practiced bending and threaded around each other. Guildmaster Mikken had decided Jon was ready to try his hand at something more challenging than horseshoes and short swords, and Jon wanted to show that he was worthy of the opportunity.

 

Now, their work for the day done, Jon and Theon walked together down the road away from Master Mikken’s forge and out towards the rolling hills of the countryside. Jon easily blocked out most of Theon’s prattling about the red breeches and vest he was going to wear and ignored the blocky shape of Duke Stark’s castle off in the distance.

 

Instead, he let his eyes wander along the wheat fields and wildflowers as they made their way along the dusty road. Burst of daffodils nodded in the breeze along the dusty track -- strange, he thought distantly, that they should be be blooming so late in the season.

 

“...tall, they say, and pretty, though apparently she likes books, of all things--”

 

“I thought you’d said you didn’t want to get shackled to a nagging broad anytime soon,” Jon said, cutting him off.

 

Theon laughed then. “The  _ dowry _ Jon. Think of the  _ dowry _ . I could finally get out of this hole and into a place more befitting of my status.” They were approaching the boarding house he lived in with a handful of other working men.

 

He should have known there was some other motive at play. Theon Greyjoy never missed a chance to complain about being displaced in the Greyjoy business by his sister. His father had dropped him into Guildmaster MIkken’s forge with the instruction to earn his place in the family by  _ paying the iron price. _ But marrying a duke’s daughter would give him the status and income he felt entitled to with as little work on his end as possible. Typical Theon.

 

“Best of luck, then,” Jon told him, not meaning it in the slightest. If Duke Stark’s daughter had any sense, she’d steer well-clear of Theon Greyjoy.

 

Theon winked and clapped Jon on the shoulder as they parted ways. “You know me, Snow. When it comes to women, I don’t need  _ luck _ .”

 

Alone, Jon walked on. The sun was kissing the tops of the trees in the distance now, turning the sky into a bed of pink-gold.

 

He was trying hard to not be jealous, but he  _ was _ . Especially when he rounded the bend in the road and his little cottage came into view. Once upon a time, his family had money, but his grandfather and uncle had gambled away the family fortune. The cottage and the land it sat on was was the only thing of value his parents had left to him, and he’d worked hard to keep it kept tidy and proper. He’d re-thatched the roof on his own last summer (Theon had promised to help, only to beg off after a long night of drinking in the brothel) and he had a right nice vegetable garden going along the southern edge of the postage stamp of earth that was all his own.

 

His steps slowed as he started up the footpath to his home. Only the rich or titled of the village had been invited to the ball and Jon was neither. He was an unmarried apprentice with two good feet and two good hands. And even if he were Guildmaster Mikken’s best student in a decade, that clearly wasn’t enough for an invitation to the ball held tonight for Duke Stark’s only daughter, the Lady Sansa.

 

Jon turned his key and the lock clicked open. No unexpected visitors while he’d been gone, it seemed. The lock on his cottage’s door wouldn’t have kept out a determined thief, but it was better than nothing. He stepped into the threshold and turned to close the door, but the view made him stop.

 

From his stoop, he could see Duke Stark’s castle. The sky was going velvet purple in the east, and he could see the keep’s windows starting to glow. He gave it a long, considering look. 

 

It was a life out of his grasp, a life he knew better than to want, but deep down, he wished he had the  _ chance _ . The chance to walk across the castle’s moat, enter Duke Stark’s great hall, drink and dance among those who claimed to be his betters. He wanted to drink good wine, eat good food, listen to good music.

 

Instead, he knew, as he closed his door against the castle’s silhouette, that his night would be his, and his alone.

 

He washed up and settled down at his table with a bowl of stew. The church bell rang in the distance.  _ Gonng, Gonng, Gonng _ ...Jon scraped the bottom of his bowl and counted the peals. 

 

Just as the last tremble of the eighth peal faded from the air, a knock sounded at his door. 

 

He hadn’t been expecting anyone, had he? Jon pushed back from the table and walked towards the door. There was a window at the front of the cottage, but he couldn’t quite make out who was standing on his stoop.

 

“Who is it?” He called out as he neared the door. The moment his hand fell onto handle, his breath shuddered and caught in his chest. A tingle ran along his skin, the hair on the back of his neck lifted. 

 

No one replied. Then, another knock.

 

His stomach churned, but it felt ridiculous. This was  _ his _ home, and he wasn’t exactly known for being a pushover. So Jon took a fortifying breath and pulled the door open.

 

On his front stoop stood a woman. She was petite, green-eyed and boasting a head full of brunette curls. In her arms she carried a large bag. As though oblivious to Jon’s confusion, the woman smiled. “Hello, Jon Snow.”

 

“Who are you?”

 

Her smile widened. “I have a delivery for you.”

 

“For me? A delivery?”

 

“So many questions, Jon Snow. Didn’t you hear the time? If you keep on like this, you’ll be late.”

 

“Late for what?”

 

She sighed, bemused. “The ball, of course. Oh, don’t look at me like that.  _ You’re _ the one who wants to go. Now, are you going to leave me out here in the dark holding all of this?”

 

It was strange, inviting a proper lady like this one into his cottage. She was wildly out of place in her green-and-gold dress and glittering rings. And yet--adding to the strangeness--she went right to his kitchen table and pulled out his rough-hewn chair to drop her burden into it as though she had done it every night for years.

 

“Tunic, breeches, the vest, and I’m sure there are…yes, shoes, I knew they were hiding in here somewhere.” She murmured to herself as she unpacked the back. She laid each piece of clothing--exquisitely embroidered and beaded--on the table Jon had thankfully scrubbed down the other week.

 

He touched the fabric lightly, reverently. He’d never seen clothing so fine. The woolen breeches and linen shirt were simply, luxurously made. But it was the detail of the green velvet jacket that caught his eye. He traced his fingers along the stems and petals of the embroidered flowers that covered the whole of it. 

 

_ Wait, the flowers--were they...? _ He squinted in the cabin’s candlelight to make sure he was sure of what he saw. 

 

“Daffodils?” he asked, disbelieving.

 

She smiled. “Is that what you call them? I think they’re lovely.”

 

“What do you call them?”

 

“Jonquils.” Her green eyes danced with laughter at a joke only she understood. “Come on now, hurry, Jon Snow. ‘Fashionably late’ is an acceptable excuse only up to a point, you know.”

 

The strange woman went out into his back garden while he changed into the outfit she had brought for him. Each piece went on as though it were made for him. Everything fit perfectly, tucked perfectly, buttoned perfectly. Now and then, he paused, confused about how to lace his tunic or how to arrange his breeches and socks. But all he had to do was to close his eyes and concentrate on those dusty old memories of his father, and the proper way soon came to him.

 

As he shrugged into the jacket and worked his arms through the sleeves, he opened his back shutter a crack. What he saw sent him lurching for the door.

 

“Where did you get that horse?” He demanded, pointing at the magnificent white destrier nibbling contentedly on a mouthful of grass. The oiled-black saddle on its back sat atop a green silk blanket, along the hem of which grew embroidered daffodils that matched those on his jacket.

 

She blinked, feigning befuddlement. “Who, Ghost? I rode him here, didn’t you see before?”

 

“No!”

 

Her laugh was a lilting titter. “He’s been tied at the end of your lane, silly boy. You must promise me to be more observant at the party tonight Jon Snow. Do you have your gloves?”

 

“In my pocket,” he said, opening his jacket to show her where he’d tucked the lambskin gloves, and she handed over the reins. “And take this, for luck.” 

 

She flipped something at him. Instinctively, he caught it. He stared at the little token in his hand, shocked. He’d left it at the forge today, hadn’t he?

 

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

 

She just gave him another beguiling grin. “Guildmaster Mikken will still expect you at dawn, Jon Snow. Watch the clock.”

 

II.

 

“His Lordship, Trystane Martell, son of Duke Martell.”

 

Sansa, the only child of the beloved and benevolent Duke Stark, dipped a curtsey in reply to Lord Storm’s bow. He stepped aside, his introduction complete, and another young man stepped forward to the foot of the stairs to the dais.

 

Sansa stood atop the dais in the Great Hall and looked down onto the line of gentlemen who had traveled from far and wide to meet her. All she saw was one self-important lord’s son after another, with self-important merchant’s sons sprinkled in between them. 

 

She sighed.

 

It wasn’t quiet enough. Her lady mother, Duchess Catelyn, stepped up behind her and took her elbow. “Sansa,” Catelyn chided. “If you want to marry someone who strikes your fancy, tonight is your best chance.”

 

Sansa nodded and took a bracing inhale. After her betrothal to the  _ un _ charming Prince Joffrey had fallen through, her parents had decided that a ball would be the best way for Sansa to meet as many eligible young men as possible. Even if she felt like a porcelain doll set out on display, her mother wasn’t  _ wrong _ . 

 

When the next young man ( _ His Lordship, Theon Greyjoy, son of Lord Balon Greyjoy _ ) stepped forward, she made sure to meet his eyes and bid him welcome.

 

“The pleasure is mine,” Theon replied, smiling. But it was too rakish, too flirting, trying  _ too  _ hard that Sansa immediately crossed him off in her mind. She’d dealt with enough of that in London to be taken by it now.

 

As she dismissed him, movement towards the back of the Hall caught her eye. It was a young man with dark hair who looked completely uninterested in the receiving line. Instead, he stood in front of a set of tapestries, shifting from one foot to another as he inspected the hunting scene. 

 

Something about his coat distracted her as she continued to go through the motions of greeting the guests who had come to throw their hats into the marriage ring. The pops of yellow against green velvet kept catching her eye while he moved along the tapestries, following the story they told. And after he finished and retreated into the crowd, Sansa found herself stretching upwards, trying to find him.

 

“Who is it, my love?” Duchess Catelyn asked. She tried to follow her daughter’s line of vision, ready to call forward whichever of the young men that Sansa pointed out.

 

“No one,” Sansa lied, hurriedly. The last thing she needed was to tell her mother that it was a man’s  _ coat _ that had caught her eye, not his face or his title. “Just watching papa make nice with our guests.”

 

She breezed through the rest of the introductions. Time sped up as she curtsied and said hello, curtsied and said hello, curtsied and said hello. And then the line was finished and she was free to descend.

 

The musicians started up, but Sansa begged off the strapping young men who asked for the pleasure of a dance, unsure of what exactly was drawing her to the mysterious man but knowing she  _ had  _ to meet him.

 

She took a goblet of wine from a passing tray and drew down a few swallows to calm her nerves. He wasn’t dancing yet, and he wasn’t sidling alongside either of her parents, nor was he at the gaming tables. 

 

For a moment, Sansa thought she’d just imagined him, or maybe he’d seen her, found her wanting, and left, and then--there he was, turning down the corridor to the west end of the castle.

 

She picked up a handful of her white skirts and rushed after him. Down the halls, around the corners, then out the side door. She finally caught up with him in the gardens. He was circling the large fountain Duke Stark had ordered from France, studying the carved marble statues with a sharp eye. 

 

As he came around to the far side of the fountain, he caught sight of her, standing quietly in the torchlight. He blinked, then cleared his throat and bowed. “Lady Sansa. What are you doing out here?”

 

“I...wanted to see your coat.” She felt quite stupid all of a sudden. How could she explain the strange pull she had towards him? But there she was, and there  _ he _ was, so she might as well take the opportunity. She pulled her shoulders back and walked around the fountain to get a closer look.

 

She couldn’t believe her eyes. “Daffodils,” she murmured, taking in the wild spattering of the yellow flowers across the fabric. “How did you know?”

 

“Know what?”

 

The husk of his voice drew her eyes up to his face.

 

He was even more handsome up close. His hair had a wave to it, and his mouth was soft, plump. There was a slight pinkness to his cheeks and, when the night breeze blew, she could smell something like...smoke, burnt iron, underneath the stronger scents of soap and clean linens. 

 

“Daffodils. They’re my favorite flower,” she told him. That almost nobody knew that fact, she held back. Instead, she took a step away and addressed him again. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

 

“Jon.”

 

“Just Jon?”

 

He gave her a small smile. A slight, self-deprecating curve of his lips that almost never graced the faces of most men Sansa met. “I’m of no importance to you, Lady Sansa.”

 

“But you came to the ball tonight,” she said with a questioning tilt to her head.

 

He laughed at that, and for a minute longer than necessary, clearly finding something funny. “I did come tonight,” he said. He looked at Sansa, then at the fountain, then at the keep behind them. “I have lived my whole life looking at this castle. I wanted to see what it looked like on the inside.”

 

_ He was a commoner _ , Sansa realized. And that made him a true guest in her home. She gestured to the hedgerows behind him. “Well, then, shall I give you a tour?”

 

With a look of only slight shock and doubt, Jon followed Sansa into the gardens. She led him along the roses and lavender and pointed out the summerhouse Duke Stark had built for her as a child. They could hear the music when they reached the ornamental pond, and when she held out her hands, he took them without hesitation.

 

It was a slow dance, a dance for lovers. Though Jon quite clearly had no formal dance training, Sansa was content to sway back and forth on the soft grass in the circle of his strong, steady arms. The moon was full above them, and she could see how the gray of his eyes sparkled when he looked down at her. He’d forgotten to put his gloves on to dance, and she could feel the rough edges of the callouses on his hands. She didn’t mention them, though, because she liked the way they felt.

 

After, she walked them to an ancient oak tree, and he was charmed by the swing hanging from it. At her urging, took a seat and pushed himself back.

 

“I haven’t done this since I was a child,” he told her as he swung past her. 

 

He laughed easily now, after hours in her company and the glasses of sweet wine from the servants who conveniently found them no matter where they wandered in the gardens. Somewhere, Sansa knew, her mother was lurking. But as long as she stayed out of sight, Sansa didn’t mind.

 

“Lean back further, you’ll go higher,” Sansa instructed, and Jon did exactly that.

 

At the top of an arc, something tumbled from his pocket. It bounced in the moonlit grass and landed at Sansa’s feet. She picked it up and brought it into a shaft of moonlight. “What is this?”

 

“I made it,” he said as he swung past. “It’s...not perfect, but I’m working to make it better.”

 

It was a metal knot, small enough to fit into the palm of her hand. The bends were too sharp in places, some of the strands widened and thickened in spots, but it was an ingenious little thing. 

 

Just as she was about to ask how he had made it, the bell in their belltower starting ringing. “Oh, it’s midnight,” she said, amazed at how quickly the time had passed in Jon’s company.

 

Jon skidded the swing to a stop and jumped off. “Midnight? Already?”

 

“Time flies when you’re having fun.”

 

But he didn’t return her smile, only looked back over his shoulder towards the stables. “I have to go,” he told her. 

 

Her heart sank, and she tried to stall him. “But there’s still more to see inside. The paintings in the East Wing are tremendous, and I’m sure my father would be happy to show you his study--”

 

“I wish I could stay, but I really must leave,” Jon said, cutting her off gently. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “Thank you for the lovely evening, Lady Sansa.”

 

And then he was gone, running into the darkness, faster than Sansa could ever hope to keep up in her heavy skirts.

 

“Who was that?” Duchess Catelyn demanded, emerging from the shadow of a beech tree. She had been watching the couple from a distance, her hopes rising with each smile and every laugh. “We must invite him back for dinner as soon as possible. What is his name?”

 

Her daughter looked down at something clutched in her hand, then back at her mother with a dismayed expression. “Just ‘Jon.’”

 

III.

 

A week later, and Jon and Theon were back at work. Theon had been full of stories of all the people he had met at the ball, and Jon was relieved that his fellow apprentice hadn’t seen him in the Great Hall, much less dancing with Lady Sansa herself.

 

He was focused on giving the band of steel he was working light taps, evening out the edges without losing the thickness of the bar, when Mikken barked out his and Theon’s names.

 

Jon dropped his hammer and jolted upright. It always took his eyes a moment to adjust after staring at white-hot metal, so he blinked and blinked, squinted and squinted, the feminine voice at the door the only hint of who might have caused their master to call them from their work.

 

Finally, the light and darkness merged and he could see that the woman who had entered their forge was Sansa. Sansa Stark. Duke Stark’s daughter

 

“My lady Sansa,” Theon murmured, bowing low. Jon copied him, mind whirling.

 

“Please, gentlemen,” Sansa said, stepping deeper into the forge. She bypassed Theon and came to stand in front of Jon. He’s aware, suddenly, of the sweat on his neck and chest, dampening his hair and soiling his tunic. But Sansa just smiled and took his hand.

 

Dumbfounded, Jon cut a side glance at Master Mikken, who was watching Lady Sansa speak to his apprentice with a bemused smile. When Jon glanced back at Sansa, she was pulling her hand from her pocket.

 

She drew out something small and placed it into the palm of his hand. It was the celtic knot he’d left behind on accident, the little iron token the strange woman had flipped towards him as he’d headed towards the ball.

 

“You’re a hard man to find, Jon Snow,” Sansa said.

 

It made no sense, and all the sense in the world. He closed his hands over hers, knot and all. “But you found me.”


End file.
